


Here We Are

by sephirothflame



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:08:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23044510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sephirothflame/pseuds/sephirothflame
Summary: Geralt was pregnant, Jaskier was the father, and Yennefer was somehow to blame.What the fuck was a Witcher supposed to do with a baby?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 14
Kudos: 305





	Here We Are

**Author's Note:**

> First fic I've written in almost a year, for the witcherkinkmeme over on dreamwidth.
> 
> Takes place ambiguously during the series but before Ciri. Uh. Basic suspension of belief is required, I guess. No beta, we die like men, the usual nonsense.

It starts with nausea after he’s been settled for too long. Meditating by the fire, spread out asleep on his bedroll, even crammed in the corner of a dingy tavern enjoying a drink. As soon as he gets up to move about, there’s a twinge of dizziness behind his eyes and the bile is rising in the back of his throat before he can stop it.  
  
“I thought Witchers were immune to sickness,” Jaskier says, handing him a water skin. “Is it consumption, or does the burning start in your loins? I was hoping for a far more dramatic final ballad than the pox.”  
  
Geralt glares at Jaskier from where he’s bent over, but the bard is unabashed. He twirls an elaborate feather quill between his fingers and Geralt just rubs at his temple to avoid having to look at him any longer. The sickness passes as quickly as it came and Geralt swishes the taste out of his mouth with well water.  
  
“Loathe as I am to detour from this wonderful quest through the swamp to light some candles and guide wayward souls home, maybe we should find you a healer,” Jaskier says. “It’s only about a day back south.”  
  
“We’re not heading back,” Geralt says, pushing himself up fully and stretching. His thighs burn from crouching and there’s a rush to his head. Whatever is bothering him will pass on it’s own or it’s a curse, in which case he’ll just contemplate death over returning to Yennefer. Either way, he’ll take care of it.  
  
“Ah, yes, the swamps always smell so lovely this time of year…,” Jaskier says, his voice trailing off as they start to walk.  
  


* * *

  
  
As Geralt expected, the Flame of the Eternal Fire does nothing. No wayward souls make it home that night, or the next. They end up with a pouch full of beast parts - from the ghouls, and the drowners and the barghests and anything else that planned to jump out at them - but the flames die out in the first muggy rain and Geralt can’t be bothered to relight them.  
  
The whole place reeks. He’d been dragged under the thick surface of swamp water by an echinops and enough bloedzuigers had exploded under his blade he was sure even Jaskier’s gentle fingers would never wash the viscous fluid from his hair or armor. There were contracts for some of the parts, and others Geralt planned to restock his potions with, but the bag was dripping dark fluid and he felt as sickly as Jaskier looked just holding the bag.  
  
Geralt had lost count of the times he’d emptied his stomach over the last two nights but he’d given up feeding it anything other than bitter potions to get him through it. Thunderbolt and Tawny Owl taste as bitter coming up as they do going down, but Geralt manages to get them through the swampland and back to town.  
  
The Priest of the Eternal Flame offered them no reward, because they failed to do what was commanded of them, but they fetch a pretty penny for the fangs Geralt stocked up on. At least they manage to come out ahead, this time. They’re turned away from the tavern floor, but the doleful eyed daughter of the owner sends them up hot water for a bath free of charge.  
  
“Well,” Jaskier says, when they’re in their room and stripping out of sticky, mucky clothes. “Next time you say you’re hunting in a swamp, I’ll take up your kind invitation to wait in town.”  
  
Geralt just grunts. There’s no changing Jaskier’s mind once he’s made it, and the Priest of the Eternal Fire had made it sound like the Heavens would open up before them to welcome it’s wandering souls. Geralt doubts they’ll be hearing this particular ballad any time soon.  
  
Jaskier bathes first, because Geralt is too tired to fight it, and he’s the cleaner of the two. The room smells rich with perfumes and oils and Geralt finds himself choking back bitter bile, all that’s left in his poor stomach. He’s light headed and he sits down heavily on an upturned bucket.  
  
“Geralt?” Jaskier says, his voice sounding genuine with concern. “Should I fetch a healer while you’re in the bath? We’ve got enough coin to get you looked over, if nothing else…”  
  
“I’m fine,” Geralt says. He’s cold, despite the hot steam coming from the bath, but it’s more comfortable to sit stripped completely down then in his caked armor. “You’ve used too much orange blossom.”  
  
“You love orange blossom,” Jaskier says haughtily, scrubbing his skin with a rag. “It kills the smell of the _other_ scents you bring home.”  
  
Geralt just hums in response, and Jaskier takes it as a sign to begin a rant about their adventure and the under-appreciation for what _they_ go through. Geralt tunes him out until it’s his turn in the bath, and he relaxes into the gentle touch of Jaskier’s dexterous fingers in his hair and on his sore muscles.  
  


* * *

  
  
Jaskier smells like orange blossoms and chamomile but he squirms away from the hand Geralt puts on his hip to drag him close. His lips catch Jaskier’s jaw, rough with stubble, and Geralt just sighs. It’s unusual for the bard to turn away his affections, but given how Geralt has been feeling, he’s not surprised.  
  
“You threw up in the _tub_ , Geralt,” Jaskier says, not unkindly. “I’m not having your mouth or any other part of you on me until you can keep your stomach down for a day or two. Unless you’ve changed your mind about the healer?”  
  
Geralt grumbles, and tugs Jaskier closer to him under the covers. He rests his forehead on the nape of Jaskeir’s neck, still damp from his dripping hair, and inhales deeply. At least this scent is comforting and brings on no bitter reaction in his stomach. It’s nice, being able to wrap himself up in his bard without having to exhaust him first.  
  


* * *

  
  
Geralt never sees a healer. It’s a waste of coin, as far as he’s concerned, when there has never been a disease to kill a Witcher yet. The sickness passes as suddenly as it came on, with the exception of anything more potent than the pissy ale they get in most of the small taverns they pass through. The Temerian Rye he got in a trade is better off as a potion base than warming his blood as the seasons shift.  
  
The nausea is gone, but it brings it’s own slew of friends to harass Geralt’s aging body. There’s radiating pain from his ass to his ankle and his muscles feel more sore much quicker now. He tires riding Roach just as quickly as he does walking her.  
  
If Jaskier has noticed the change in his mood or his reactions, he’s yet to comment on it. It’s easier to pretend everything is fine when there is no visible evidence of sickness. Geralt doesn’t know the last time he had fallen sick, barely remembers that far back, so whatever it is that’s worked its way into his system is just causing him to overreact to every minor inconvenience. It was an inevitable eventuality that something make it past a Witcher's immune system. Jaskier looks at him with curiosity not concern, and he lets Geralt find comfort between his thighs more often than not.  
  
Things are practically back to normal.  
  


* * *

  
  
“Have you decided which Royal Court you’d like to sleep your way through this winter?” Geralt asks. He doesn’t so much as escort Jaskier to where he’ll spend the cold, dark months, but he’ll set him on the right path if it doesn’t interfere with his own. Kaer Morhen isn’t remotely close to any of Jaskier’s preferred locations. along the Western sea.  
  
“After all these years, you still aren’t inviting me home for the holidays?” Jaskier teases, a playful lilt to his voice. “Are you afraid your father won’t approve?”  
  
Geralt grunts, but doesn’t correct him. Vesemir is as good as Geralt’s father. “One of us needs to keep earning coin. There’s no monsters to hunt this far North once the snow starts falling. They'll return to their burrows until Spring.”  
  
Jaskier taps the handle of his spoon to his chin and looks contemplative. “It’s been a while since I’ve returned to Oxenfurt, but I heard a rumor the lovely and mysterious Yennefer of Vengerberg has bullied her way into Foltest’s court. Something to do with Adda, I suspect.” He hadn’t been there for that curse-breaking, but Jaskier always manages to find the heart of a story. “Though, it’s barely been a season since we’ve seen her and she might not have calmed down.”  
  
Not knowing what to say, Geralt grunts. Oxenfurt is hardly a ride away from Vizima, but neither is particularly is a close enough journey to Kaer Morhen. He won’t be able to make it when the snow starts piling high in the mountains, but it’ll be nice to know that they’re close. He watches Jaskier eat his rabbit stew, faraway look in his eyes, and Geralt debates staying with him come Winter.  
  
It would be nice, to not have to worry for a while. Jaskier, making music and warming spirits in the city, tucked safely against Geralt’s side at night. It’s impossible to tell how Yennefer might feel about them, about _him_ , at any given point in time, but Geralt likes to know that she’s safe. That she isn’t alone. Even if she is still on a fruitless mission.  
  
But there’s an unfamiliar ache in Geralt’s gut and his nerve feels like it’s constantly inflamed. It’s better to return to Kaer Morhen and see what Vesemir knows on the subject of lingering ailments. His sense of smell has been in overdrive since the swamp and he’s still at risk of tossing his meal if he’s not careful what he shoves down his gullet. He’s been surviving on stew broth and bread for the better part of a few weeks.  
  
That night, Jaskier rides him slow and sweet under the moonlight and Geralt tries to remember every intimate detail for when the heavy winds of winter separates them.  
  


* * *

  
  
Vizima is quarantined off and Geralt spends the better part of a week running pointless errands and fetch quests to earn enough favor to squeeze through the heavy wooden gates. His body is starting to feel sluggish, heavy almost, and Jaskier jokes about him gaining Winter weight for hibernation as he has to readjust the straps of his armor.  
  
Inside the city walls, there’s a dying scent of plague and Geralt pulls Jaskier closer by the nape of his neck, instinctually. It’s another week of _kill this, fetch that_ before they have enough coin to bribe their way into the market district but it’s all pretty much for naught when they return to their rooms for the night and find Yennefer lounging on their creaky, double bed.  
  
“You’ve been in town for days and haven’t bothered to say _hello_?” Yennefer asks. “I thought we were leaving the argument in Cintra behind us.”  
  
“We would have dropped by sooner, but it turns out this city has little respect for minstrels and Witchers,” Jaskier says with a huff. He manages to produce a hellebore bulb from his pouch with a slight of hand, and Yennefer accepts it graciously, sitting up on the bed. “How long have you known we were struggling in the slums, witch?”  
  
Yennefer doesn’t rise to the bait though. Her beautiful purple eyes are narrowed and she watches Geralt with a look of contemplation. “You’ve changed.”  
  
“I can’t imagine how,” Jaskier says. He busies himself with dropping their spoils wherever he fancies around the room and lets them have their staring contest. It’s always like this between them. “I can’t even guarantee he’s changed clothes in the last few days. There was a cockatrice in the sewers, and alas, it defiled his modesty.”  
  
“Shut up, Jaskier,” Geralt says. It lacks heat but it’s disconcerting to have Yennefer’s gaze so solely intent on him. “I’m fine. Nothing’s changed.” It’s all he means to say on the subject, but Yennefer is still watching him and her gaze narrows. “I was ill. Nothing a trip to Kaer Morhen can’t solve.”  
  
“You’ll have to ride soon if you’re planning on making it to the mountains in time,” Yennefer says. “It’s already started snowing up North.”  
  
“Fuck,” Geralt says, frowning. Most places haven’t even celebrated their harvest festivals yet, it’s too soon in the year for there to be snow.  
  
“Guess we’ll just have to live life in the slums,” Jaskier says woefully, collapsing dramatically on the bed at Yennefer's side. “Geralt and I will survive, but a lady as yourself must surely return to her rooms at court. Where there are warm baths and flowing food and good spirits all around. We will miss you, here in the filthy heart of the city.”  
  
Yennefer snorts, but it’s followed by a smile. She truly is over their argument in Cintra, then. That’s a good sign for Jaskier. He’ll have somewhere warm to ride out the Winter and with someone who will keep him in line. “I suppose I have room in my bed for one or two more people…”  
  
“Make sure Jaskier stays in one piece,” Geralt says. He steps close to press a kiss to Yennefer’s head and the scent of lilac and gooseberries washes over him. It comforts his body from a way he didn’t even know it ached. “I’ll ride North tomorrow.”  
  
“What, you really don’t want to stay?” Jaskier asks. “Doesn’t King Foltest owe you for his daughter’s life?”  
  
“The princess is doing remarkably well,” Yennefer offers. “Though I’ve been more interested in the curse that brought her to be than her health, to be honest. She’s still a bit feral.”  
  
That was to be expected, but Geralt doesn’t voice it. He knows he should put up a fight when Yennefer drags him close and Jaskier plasters himself to his backside. It’s not the bed they fall onto, though, and Geralt curses the rush of magic that runs through his veins as he’s dragged down into a portal. The bed they collapse on is much softer than the one Geralt and Jaskier had been sharing, and obscenely larger.  
  
It’s the only information Geralt has time to process before he shoves his two lovers aside and retches mystery meat stew and stale bread all over the silky red blanket covering Yennefer’s bed.  
  
“Ah,” Jaskeir says, rubbing a soothing hand over Geralt’s lower back. “Have you changed your mind about that healer?”

* * *

Foltest has a Sorcerer on staff and there is an ancient half-elf that the castle staff swear by, but Geralt holds his ground. Whatever is affecting him is a Witcher matter and the only person who will be able to help is Vesemir. Whom Geralt would have seen by now if Yennefer and Jaskier would stop fretting about him and let him leave. It's eerie to see Jaskier and Yennefer conspiring together, heads bowed over medical texts and spell books. Geralt is almost relieved when the cattiness returns between them and they both try to mount him on the bed.  
  
_Ladies first_ and _age before beauty_ and Jaskier ends up on his back with Geralt inside of him and Yennefer around him and it feels almost normal. Close as normal can be, for the three of them. Yennefer will take something too close to her heart, Jaskier will misread the room, and Geralt… Geralt will find a way to fuck it up, as always, when emotions are involved.  
  
Still, it feels nice to have his head in Jaskier's lap with long fingers in his hair, and Yennefer snuggled up against his chest. He's tempted to stay with them, come morning. The wind is getting colder with every passing day and Roach won't think kindly of him if he forces her through the snow. There will be no turning back, if they set off now. They should have left days ago, when Yennefer first dragged them to her chambers.  
  
Geralt doesn't even realize he's drifted off into his lovers' embrace until he wakes up to being poked and prodded. Jaskier is gentle as he cards Geralt's hair out of his face and _shh_ him back to sleep, but Yennefer's nails are as sharp as her metal instruments are cold.  
  
"Ah," Jaskier says conversationally. "Welcome to the Pankratz Spa and Massage Parlour. Would you like to pay some extra coin for a _very_ happy ending?"  
  
Geralt should push them both away, but the bard's touch is soothing. "What are you two up to."  
  
"Trying to figure out what's been bothering you," Jaskier says.  
  
"By examining me in my sleep?"  
  
"Well, it's the only time we could get you naked and to sit still," Jaskier huffs. "It could hardly be a flu and it's not like that beast between your legs has a rash." Jaskier starts ticking off on his fingers as he talks, "you're irritable, you're limping, you're bloating, you're ill…"  
  
"You're pregnant," Yennefer says, uncharacteristically quiet.  
  
Jaskier laughs and Geralt forces himself up onto his elbows to see Yennefer better. She's holding a divining rod over his gut and it's practically alive in her hands. Her face is stone cold and Jaskier's laughter peters out.  
  
"I know he has the classic symptoms, but he lacks the proper biology," Jaskier says uncertainly.  
  
Yennefer holds the rod up to Jaskier's chest, whispering in the ancient tongue. The rod starts fluttering again, in time to the rhythmic beating of Jaskier's heart. Hovering over Geralt's heart, it slows down, shaking almost imperceptibly. Finally, Yennefer brings it back down to Geralt's gut and it springs back to life.  
  
"No," Geralt says. He pushes Jaskier aside and rolls to the edge of the bed, eager to be back on his feet. To put space between them.  
  
"You can't just say _no_!" Jaskier exclaims, scrambling after Geralt and catching him by the bicep. "Surely there's other experiments and tests you can run? I mean, pregnancy, really?"  
  
"Now that we have a diagnosis," Yennefer says. She hasn't moved from her graceful perch on the bed, narrow eyes unreadable. "How long since anyone has been inside of you, Geralt?"  
  
"Yen," Geralt growls. He has no intention of humoring her because there is no possible way for her to be right. The Trial of Grasses very pointedly made him sterile, and that's not considering the other aspects of a pregnancy.  
  
"Well, you were there," Jaskier replied, his voice getting dreamy. "The night started with music and wine and some lovely magical bondage…"  
  
"We get the point, Jas," Yennefer says, nodding to herself. "That was almost four months ago."  
  
Geralt is not pregnant. He has not been pregnant with Jaskier's child for nearly four months. He would have known. There would have been signs. More signs. Obvious signs.  
  
"Geralt?" Jaskier asks, tentatively. He attempts to squeeze Geralt's bicep but Geralt jerks away from him.  
  
Grabbing his small clothes and trousers, he gets dressed almost mechanically. His shirt follows just as quickly. "No."  
  
"You can't just keep saying no!" Jaskier says. He scrambles to dress as well, hopping around, and shoots Yennefer a panicked look. "You need to think about the baby - _our baby_ \- before you go storming off with Roach into the foul weather!"  
  
Geralt just grunts and dodges every attempt Jaskier makes to cling to him.  
  
"Yennefer, talk some sense into this stubborn, old Witcher," Jaskier pleads.  
  
Yennefer blinks widely, as if lost in her own thoughts. "Let him simmer down, Jaskier. It's not like we don't know where he's storming off to, in any case."  
  
Jaskier does not let Geralt simmer down and it takes a broad arm to the chest, pinning him to the wall, to quiet his rambling. "Geralt…"  
  
"Leave. Me. Alone." Geralt's tone leaves no room for negotiation and Jaskier sags beneath his grip against the wall. Geralt lets go and Jaskier just watches him with wide eyes. "Stay."  
  
And Jaskier does.  
  


* * *

  
  
Admittedly, Geralt probably shouldn’t have stormed out of the city and forged his way East. What coin he had barely covered staples for Roach and himself and he had no choice but to get the mare a thicker blanket with the way the wind was already changing.  
  
There was no turning back.  
  
Yennefer was right to say she knew where Geralt would be going, because there is only one possible place for him to go. He doesn’t know if Vesemir will have any more answers then Yennefer does but at least Geralt will be alone and have time to come to terms with this curse on his own.  
  
How could it be anything else?  
  
Geralt had accepted his sterilization a long time ago and he certainly never expected _this_. Oh, he heard rumors the same as any traveler did, of men hiding away to keep these awful secrets. Geralt was hardly ashamed of his deep affections for Jaskier and he had grown to enjoy the feeling of the bard moving inside of him, bodies rocking to a rhythm only Jaskier could hear.  
  
This just wasn't supposed to be possible.  
  


* * *

  
  
Except…  
  
There was a soreness to his muscles after he spent all day riding. What give his trousers had were slowly losing the fight with the weight he'd gained, and his armor was packed away in Roach's saddlebags. There was a flutter in his gut always ready to catch him off guard.  
  
Nothing was as impossibly distracting as the heartbeat.  
  
Now that Geralt knew it was there, recognized it for what it was, it was impossible to ignore. It felt so rapid fire compared to his own, thumping at just the edge of his senses. It was all he could focus on when he sat in front of the fire to meditate or laid down to sleep. It lulled his senses through long hours on horseback, the days winding down as they traveled.  
  
He would drift, sometimes, watching the sky above him. His hand pressed low over his gut, surely covering whatever was growing inside of him, however impossibly so. It felt comforting to spread his fingers and think about his impossible thing. This one pure thing.  
  
Geralt was pregnant, Jaskier was the father, and Yennefer was somehow to blame.  
  
What the fuck was a Witcher supposed to do with a baby?  
  


* * *

  
  
Roach didn't offer much in words of wisdom as they travelled north. She bumped her head into his shoulder and edged her way closer to the fire as the nights got colder, but she was a quiet companion.  
  
Geralt found himself missing Jaskier's constant chattering. The nights grew longer and it was almost lonely, traveling with just his horse. As difficult and opinionated as she could choose to be, it wasn't the same. Her gentle breathing and shifting left Geralt wanting for the dulcet tone of Jaskier's voice as he sang to himself in search of meaning.  
  
He even missed the way Yennefer and Jaskier would bicker, the bard practically groveling to be allowed to warm her magical tent up as her bed companion to avoid sleeping on hard earth. He was spoiled. They both were.  
  
There wasn't going to be room in that life for a baby. Certainly not whatever mutated, magical thing that was growing inside of him. Witchers hunt monsters, they don't play house. Even if the secrets of the mutagens hadn't been lost to them, it would be years before the babe could be trained as a Witcher.  
  
And.  
  
And…  
  
Geralt isn't sure he wants that, in any case.  
  
He sleeps fitfully that night.  
  


* * *

  
  
Geralt knows he's lost the battle inside of himself before he even sees the looming walls of Kaer Morhen.  
  
He has little more parental instinct for this little one than he does his Child Surprise. No warmth blossomed in his soul at the thought of raising it in a mountain cabin, far away from the cruel intentions of strangers. Geralt couldn't imagine celebrating it's name day or teaching it to hunt.  
  
Assuming it didn't come out a ghastly beast that needed to be executed on the spot, in any case.  
  
All he knew was, as much as he called Kaer Morhen home and he owed Vesemir his life, he didn't want to wish it on the life growing inside of him.  
  
Yennefer could have it, maybe. She has as much claim to the baby as either him or Jaskier and she has the stablest life of the three of them. Jaskier would have to settle down and keep his cock in check if he wanted to raise a baby. The roads were no place for a newborn, after all, and it would be too shrill for court for years to come.  
  
Still, it might be nice to visit once in a while. See the joy on Yennefer's face as she raised a baby of her own. To watch it grow. Would it's inclination for magic be as simple as Geralt's signs or would it be more musically inclined? There were so many questions. Geralt didn't want to know the answers to them, couldn't, and yet the closer to home he got… The uncertainty of his child's future was truly the only thing on his mind.  
  


* * *

  
  
"You've got everyone worked up," Lambert says. He's got a slew of foxes draped over a shoulder and a familiar, troubling light in his eyes. "Your witch has been bullying Vesemir to be allowed in the labratory for days."  
  
Geralt knew he would find Yennefer and Jaskier in the old, comforting walls of home, but a part of him had hoped they would stay behind as guests of Foltest's court. He's still not entirely sure what role he wants them to play in this. "He hasn't cowed."  
  
"Of course not," Lambert says. He waits for Geralt to dismount Roach before slinging his hunt over her back. It'll be easier for her to climb the mountain path without Geralt weighing her down.  
  
It's impossible to ignore the weight of golden eyes raking his body and Geralt wonders just how much Yennefer and Jaskier have spilled. Neither of them is particularly good at secrets and he's sure the latter has worked himself up into a tizzy. Subtlety was never Jaskier's strength.  
  
Lambert knew. Geralt could see it in his inquisitive eyes. "Huh, I'm really supposed to believe you'd let that wisp of a bard mount you? Were you that drunk or did you lose a hand of Gwent?"  
  
The sucker punch to Lambert's gut lacks heat, brought on by instinct and years of antagonizing each other. Still, Lambert's breath catches and he laughs as Geralt pulls away, scowling.  
  
"Berengar will be pissed you found a way to evade sterilization," Lambert says, side stepping quickly to avoid another playful punch to the gut. "Eskel has been having the time of his life harassing your barker. Doesn't think it's fair he only has eyes for the White Wolf while the rest of us are out here working for a living."  
  
"The barker never gave me a choice," Geralt says. He rubs at his temple and tries to ignore the budding sickness rising from his gut. He's pushed himself too hard today and that's just the physical aspect of it all. More words are yet to come, loathe as he is to admit it.  
  
"It's too late to turn back now," Lambert says, clapping a bloody hand to Geralt's shoulder. "Time to face the Wolves."  
  
Despite what awaits him on the other side of the old castle walls, a familiar weight is lifted off his shoulders with every step he takes closer to home.

* * *

"Geralt!"  
  
Jaskier is in his arms suddenly, causing Geralt to drop everything he'd brought with him from the stables to the stone floor with a loud clatter. He was wrapped in a heavy red cloak with speckled ermine lining and Geralt just sighs, resting a hand on the small of the bard's back. The gift from Yennefer keeps him warm, plastered against Geralt's front.  
  
"It took so long," Jaskier says, fretting. Geralt's skin is cold as stone and his black traveling cloak offers him little warmth even in the entrance hall.  
  
Geralt just hums, noncommittal. He pats Jaskier's back and detangles himself, stopping to pick up his saddlebags and swords. Rising is harder than it has any right to be but Geralt refuses to show any sign of hesitance or weakness.  
  
"So," Eskel says, breaking the silence. "Are we pretending your Barker _hasn't_ already told everyone?"  
  
"Fuck off," Geralt says. The one armed embrace he receives from his brother is much more mindful of the gear in his arms. "Where's Yen?"  
  
"Bullying Vesemir in the library, I think," Eskel says. "Lambert, please tell me that fox is for dinner."  
  


* * *

  
  
Jaskier mostly manages to lead them to the Sorcerer's quarters Yennefer has been given without getting lost. The tower is high, the aging stone steps exhausting after a day of riding, but the view is spectacular.  
  
"The water in the tub should be clean," Jaskier says, rooting through the bags as soon as Geralt lays them down. "Nothing a little Igni can't warm up." It's a minor fire hazard for wooden tubs, but the clawfoot monstrosity behind Yennefer's privacy panels is probably porcelain. "We weren't sure when you'd be in, see."  
  
Geralt appreciates the gesture. His fingers are too thick and numb with the cold to undo the laces on his boots and Jaskier stoops before him without ever being asked.  
  
"We did worry, you know," Jaskier says. He rubs his hands on Geralt's frozen toes, willing some dexterity and warmth back into them. "And… whatever decision you've come to, we support that."  
  
"Has Yen…" Geralt doesn't know how to ask. Figured out this curse, this miracle, this magical ailment? He lets the uncertainty hang between them as Jaskier strips him dutifully. It feels almost normal, letting Jaskier take care of him like this again.  
  
"I'm afraid you'd better ask her," Jaskier says. "It's over my head. Too much speculation. You know I prefer fanciful tales."  
  
Geralt sets Igni to the tub and the room fills with steam almost immediately.  
  
"May I?" Jaskier asks, his voice impossibly soft.  
  
At first, Geralt is confused. The ravenous bard stopped asking permission to touch him years ago, more inclined to take what he wanted and have Geralt sort him out later. Jaskier is looking at him expectantly and Geralt doesn't know what to say so he just grunts in affirmation.  
  
Jaskier's hands are gentle where they press to the slight swelling of Geralt's stomach. His muscles are fading fast to make room for the growth, and Geralt never expected to feel so… uncomfortable. Detached. This is a softness that was never meant to be. He feels out of place in his own body and Jaskier's gentle touches do naught to soothe that feeling.  
  
"Here I thought I was always so careful," Jaskier says, playfully. He speaks in a tone reserved for calming small children and animals. His fingers trace the shape of what would be - is? - Geralt's womb. "Hello, there, little one."  
  
Geralt surprisingly doesn't hate it. It's nice to be touched so gently. He may be made of weathered stone but this part of him may as well be delicate glass. It's not a sensation he's sure he's even been familiar with.  
  
By the time the water has cooled enough for Geralt to ease into the giant tub, his spent is flavoring Jaskier's kisses and the Bard is inventing something soft and private under his breath, fingers twitching against Geralt's skin like the strings of his lute.  
  


* * *

  
  
"So who exactly do I get to blame for this?" Geralt asks, voice carrying across the quiet library. Yennefer and Vesemir have set up at separate workspaces, but are close enough to bicker without raising their voices.  
  
"It's his fault," Yennefer says. She looks pleased to see Geralt wearing the leathers she had found him, and the heavy woolen cloak was the only thing keeping him warm in the drafty halls. "Unless of course you were born with it, but it wasn't something I did to you."  
  
"We could dissect you," Vesemir offered. Though he had books and parchment spread around himself, his interest seemed far off in his eyes. "You hear of these things."  
  
"But, to sterilize one set of reproductive organs and not the other," Yennefer says, frowning. "I've seen between his legs, he lacks the natural opening. He shouldn't be fertile either which way."  
  
"The Trial of Grasses was never meant for girls to endure," Geralt says. He'd heard a lot of strange stories in his life, but never one of a woman walking the Path of a Witcher. Maybe their bodies responded differently to the Trials.  
  
Vesemir makes a contemplative sound and looks at Geralt with the same curiosity his brothers had shown him. "Oh, Child Surprise. Were you born with this affliction or did the mutagens do more than we thought?"  
  
Geralt doesn't have the answer to that question and he's beginning to suspect they never will.  
  


* * *

  
  
The halls of Kaer Morhen grow quieter every year.  
  
Azoth was hanged for crimes unknown and Gwilim fell to a hoard of Alghouls. There's a rumor that a town running far south along the mountains is luring Witchers into traps, but everyone tells a different story on who died. The news is unsettling as the snow piles higher and Geralt can do little to calm the fluttering in his gut than to rub a hand over the steadily growing bump. It feels as restless inside of him as Geralt does in the keeps' walls. The world is not kind to Witchers.  
  
"I do believe I've been propositioned for the night," Jaskier says when he finds Geralt in the indoor training room. "I was asked if I breed as well as I bred."  
  
Geralt hums to acknowledge his presence, but he isn't much in the mood to talk. He's wound up tight and there's no way to expend the energy that's slowly choking him. He tires too quickly running drills with his sword and no one is willing to raise a blade against the mysterious baby. Even sex is starting to become uncomfortable, unable to find a position he can both please his partner and not have limbs pressing into his bladder.  
  
"Of course, I said, one doesn't settle for the fatty trimmings after they've had the steak," Jaskier continues, gesticulating wildly. He's never needed assurances to carry on one-sided conversations. Jaskier drops onto the stone steps by Geralt's side, leaning into him for warmth. "May I?" He asks, and Geralt peels the front of his cloak open so that Jaskier can plaster his hand over their growing child. He's yet to feel it move the way Geralt has, but he's determined it'll happen, any day now.  
  
"However, in tragic news, I think we're having bone broth and bread again for supper," Jaskier says. "How they managed to turn scrawny lads into strapping young Witchers here, I'll never understand."  
  
"There used to be more of us," Geralt offers. "We received more support."  
  
"You never speak of when you were young," Jaskier says. His fingers are strumming, mindlessly, whatever tune he's invented for their child. Geralt only grunts in response. "Yennefer and I - we were wondering - if you've decided what to do, after. This Spring."  
  
Geralt has been doing his damnedest not to think that far ahead. What happens if the baby comes out a monster or stillborn? Cutting a babe from the womb is no easy task, even when one only has the appropriate set of anatomy. He trusts Vesemir and Yennefer to be able to do it, but what comes after? Does his body heal on it's own or does he trust Swallow and Seal to set him right again?  
  
Already, his brothers are treating him like a pariah. Eskel has never fallen for Geralt's _woe is me_ behavior and Lambert enjoys fighting with someone who will fight back. But Geralt has caught the golden eyes of the Wolves and he knows there's distrust there. Uncertainty. There is fear in the unknown.  
  
Geralt has always been more than them, better than them, but this? Evading sterilization and then bringing the curse into their den halls? Witchers he barely knows in passing actively avoid him and the rest are just generally wary. Witchers are meant to be safe in the halls of Kaer Morhen and Geralt is a threat to that normalcy.  
  
Sighing, Geralt just covers Jaskier's hand with his own, stilling the fingers strumming away. For a long while, they just sit in silence.  
  


* * *

  
  
It's been a struggle of vanity, with Yennefer and Jaskier. Geralt's body is battle beaten and scarred. Each mark he had to Seal is a story of survival. Geralt couldn't give a damn about the soft pink marks stretching with his stomach.  
  
"The point is _not_ to look the life you've lived," Yennefer says. It's not the same thing as shame, she says, but Geralt feels no shame and it's easier to let her rub whatever ointments she wants over the growth marks.  
  
Today, the concoction smells like coconuts and something tangy-sweet, something unknown to him. He reeks of her pampering to the other Witchers but nothing has been said to his face. Geralt doesn't know if he has the energy to do anything about it if it was.  
  
Yennefer's fingers are gentle as she rubs, massaging the edges of his belly deeply. Her nails scrape gently through the thick hair on his lower stomach and Geralt can feel the baby turn restlessly inside of him. It’s been happening more often, when either of his lovers has tried to stir an interest in him. The discomfort is starting to outweigh the pleasure.  
  
Still, Yennefer continues the gentle touches along his groin and inside of his thighs. Her movements are languid and her eyes unreadable. “How long are we going to pretend we don’t need to talk about this?”  
  
Geralt sighs and presses his cheek against his pillow. _Forever_ , if he got his way. Geralt just hasn’t any idea what he wants to say. Whatever bonding that’s supposed to be happening between him and the life that’s growing inside of him, is missing. He’s seen enough pregnant women to know there should be some sense of wonder about the changes inside of him, not just quiet resignation.  
  
It doesn’t seem fair to tell Yennefer that, who has spent as long as Geralt has known her searching for what he has now.  
  
Geralt wants to protect the baby growing inside of him, he wants it to be raised somewhere safe and far from here. Other than that, he has no paternal instincts. He’s a Witcher. He is always going to be a Witcher. He doesn’t want to be anything else.  
  
“Tonight then,” Yennefer says, pressing a kiss to the inside of Geralt’s thigh. “We’ll talk about it after dinner.”  
  
Neither her fingers or her lips are enough to bring him relief.

* * *

  
  
Vesemir shows no indication he’s aware of Geralt’s presence and the familiarity of it is comforting. The more he starts to show, unable to hide beneath his cloak, the more curious stares he draws as he goes by. Vesemir has never concerned himself with the little details. They walk the battlements quietly, side by side, just surveying the snow covered country beyond the keeps’ walls.  
  
“I need advice,” Geralt says, eventually. He’d been toying with the words he wanted to ask but they all feel wrong on his tongue. He was trained out of being emotional, he shouldn’t be looking for choices that are just wants and desires.  
  
“You tuck your elbow in to protect your stomach when you lift your blade,” Vesemir offers. “It’s counter-intuitive.”  
  
Geralt had figured as much and just grunts in response. Eskel is the only one who will raise a wooden training blade against him, fearing Yennefer’s wrath more than actually hurting Geralt or the life inside of him. It defies years of training, but he feels like he’s leaving a precious part of him exposed.  
  
“They want to know if I want to keep the baby,” Geralt says, eventually. He doesn’t mind the silence that hangs between them and he’s certainly relishing the excuse to make his way back up to the Sorcerer’s quarters now that dinner is sitting warm in his stomach.  
  
“I’m too old to train new Witchers,” Vesemir says. He leans against a crumbling wall, looking South, where the road used to be well worn. How many Witchers had he seen depart to never return? “The secrets of the mutagens are lost. Whatever destiny your child has, it isn’t here.”  
  
_I didn’t want it to be_ , Geralt thinks. He wraps his cloak tighter around himself, as tight as he can manage, and stares across the woods where he used to train and gather alchemical ingredients. Some parts of his childhood weren’t so awful, he supposes, but he has nothing to compare them against. Geralt had calluses on his hands before he’d even lost his milk teeth.  
  
“I swore my life to the Path,” Geralt says. “I passed my Trials, I made my choice.”  
  
Vesemir makes a contemplative sound. “Eventually, even wolf pups need to leave home for good.”  
  


* * *

  
  
“Geralt!” Jaskier says, indignancy already rising off of him in a storm cloud. He barely has time to get to his feet before Geralt is shoving him back in his chair and telling him to _shut up_. “Well, I never!”  
  
“Julian,” Yennefer says. A warning. She narrows her eyes as she watches Geralt strip off his cloak and gloves, laying them by the fire to keep them warm. “You’ve made up your mind, then. Prowling around the battlements with the old wolf clear your mind?”  
  
“Vesemir won’t take the baby,” Geralt says. He drops into a chair by the fire and Jaskier immediately rises to tug off his boots. Geralt hasn’t been able to reach them for days now. “In Spring, we’ll leave this place. We’ll be welcome here at least that long.”  
  
“That doesn’t exactly explain what you plan on doing,” Jaskier says. He’s close enough that Geralt can run his cold fingers through the silky threads of his hair and Jaskier leans into the touch. “I have an estate in Oxenfurt, though I do prefer to stay at the university, and Yennefer in Vengerberg…”  
  
“Yennefer, will you take it?” Geralt asks and she answers without hesitation, “ _yes_.”  
  
Jaskier sputters indignantly. “As _one of_ the fathers, I believe I have a say in what’s happening, too!”  
  
“Do you intend to give up trolloping from court to court earning coin singing lewd and embellished feats?” Geralt asks and Jaskier shuts his mouth, lips pursed. “I cannot stop being a Witcher. I don’t want to. I cannot change who I am.”  
  
“I mean, I never planned on being a family man,” Jaskier says. He starts again, and cuts himself off, clearly getting more and more frustrated with himself. “I had hoped you would at least care enough to spend some time with the life we created! Together, maybe.”  
  
“Through Spring, at least,” Geralt said. He looked to Yennefer and she nodded agreement, like she had foreseen this arrangement before Geralt was ready to settle on it. “And come Winter.”  
  
Realization seems to click in Jaskier’s brain and he rests his cheek against Geralt’s thigh in contemplative silence. Almost absentmindedly, his fingers start stroking the secret rhythm for their child on the back of Geralt’s calf. “Where would you have me, Geralt? Hidden away with our child, a quiet reminder of what never should have been?”  
  
“I’d have you safe,” Geralt says. “But since that’s impossible, you’re free to stay with the baby, if you wish. As long as you and Yen can bare each other. Or with me.”  
  
“It’s been a while since I’ve settled in Vengerberg,” Yennefer says. “Some changes will need to be made, for safety. But Aedirn’s court is warm enough, come Winter.”  
  
“Sorry, are we really trusting the Witch with a baby?” Jaskier asks, turning his head to playfully sneer at her, and Geralt cuffs the side of his head before she can singe him. “Wow, fuck, we’re really having a baby.”  
  
Jaskier launches himself into a tangent about _girls_ and the costs they incur over the years, in sacred womanhood, in dowries and he isn’t ready to spend the rest of his life fighting off boys like himself but _boys_ , well, if it’s a boy, nothing will be safe or quiet ever again…  
  
For his part, Geralt just hopes it’s normal.

**Author's Note:**

>  **prompt** : I've seen a bunch of prompts for pregnant Jaskier, but what if Geralt was the pregnant one? I don't care about how he is pregnant (*handwavy magic*), but I'd love to know how he/they cope with it. When his armor no longer fits? When he can't fight and Jaskier has to bring in enough coin for both of them? Also lots of Jaskier pampering him, please.


End file.
